Striker's Waltz (Seattle Sound Series Book 6) Page 4

  My hand slid up another inch, desperate to see if her body was as warm and inviting as I hoped it would be.

  No. Noah’s sister, the woman he begged, cajoled, and even threatened us to treat with respect, lay draped over my shoulder and down my back, alcohol-logged and, if her eyes were any indication, desperate to forget some memory. And here I stood, in the middle of the street, feeling her up. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the fog of lust that continued to build there.

  We were mere blocks from my building. I walked toward it, rethinking my original plan of offering Preslee a cup or three of coffee and then calling her a car. But no, not in that dress. I’d drive her home when she was sober. And wearing my sweat pants.

  I ignored the doorman and the two elderly ladies in the lobby. Preslee lifted her hand off my back to wave—probably the reason no one called the police. I pressed the button on the elevator panel and breathed a sigh of relief when the doors opened. The ride up ended too soon, though I spent the entire time wrestling with my desire to put her down, to feel her up or to call quits on the evening. Preslee remained silent, heightening my awareness of her and my internal drama.

  I set her on her feet once we were inside my place. I reached around her and flicked on the lights. She squinted in response, her eyes filled with a deep sadness that made my chest ache.

  “I don’t like seeing you like this, Preslee.” I wanted her eyes bright and cheerful…or full of lust as she looked up at me.

  “Like what?” she asked. “It’s not like you know me well.” She forgot she was only wearing one shoe and started to tumble down with a squeak. Her flailing hand managed to grab hold of my shirt. Riiip. We glanced down to see three of the buttons ripped from their holes.

  “Umm…sorry?”

  I glanced up, shaking my head in amusement. “You could’ve just asked me to take it off.”

  Heat colored her cheeks. For a long moment, she stared at my shirt. Just when I thought tears would spill over her lashes, she inched forward so that her breasts touched my chest. The heat of her body bled through my thin undershirt. She tilted her head back, desire clear on her face.

  “Take it off. Please.”

  I studied her eyes, not liking the desperation building there. “You’re drunk.”

  She shrugged. “Mostly not.”

  I eased back from her, groaning at the loss of her warmth. “I don’t sleep with drunk women.”

  She smiled, but the flash of teeth didn’t cover her drooping confidence and the fear spiraling through those beautiful eyes. “That’s great. I don’t want to sleep.”

  Mierda. She tested my self-control. I pushed Preslee down onto the couch, where she sprawled. Her trench opened further, and my eyes focused on the gaps, tracing the pale skin exposed, especially those toned legs. My jaw firmed, and I turned my head away.

  She would regret the events of the evening by morning. As would I.

  She sighed. A soft rustling noise accompanied her opening the trench coat. “That’s a real shame. I’m way more adventurous after a couple of drinks.” She shrugged out of the boiled wool, and I got the first full frontal of the dress.

  I groaned, low and loud. “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “You’re the one with all these silly rules.”

  “Morals.” My hands balled into fists to keep me from reaching for her. “They’re morals. Having them makes me ethical.” And kept me from being tied to a woman who wanted me for what I could provide, not for the husband and lover I could be.

  She kicked off her other high heel before pointing her toes, making the most out of her legs before tucking her feet under her culo. She leaned her head into her palm. “You’re the one who brought me back to your place.”

  I stepped back, hands shoved into my pockets. “I don’t know where you live.” I hadn’t asked because then our evening would end. Better to torture myself than lose her already.

  “I could’ve told you.”

  “I’ll make some coffee.” I turned away, unable to look at her in that dress any longer. I burned for what she offered, which would get me in trouble with Timber management. At this point, I might not find a diplomatic way out of my current predicament. I shouldn’t have approached her, and I shouldn’t have picked her up.

  But then, I didn’t want to back out or away. I wanted Preslee more with each passing second.

  4

  Preslee

  And that was it. Total dismissal. He doesn’t want you, Pres. Time to move on.

  I wasn’t drunk, but I sure as hell wasn’t sober. Rejection in this state proved bearable. Six years ago, my life crumbled to pieces. Going out tonight was supposed to make new memories. Sexy, better ones.

  That’s why I intentionally missed the shot. Not that I’d admit it to Brenna, but I’d wanted an excuse to see Teo again. I wanted Brenna to give me that push when my self-confidence flagged, as it had tonight before I stepped into the bar.

  I closed my eyes. “Where’s your bathroom?” I asked.

  “First door on the left.”

  I walked down the hall as I held the tattered ribbons of my pride together. I closed the door and managed to lock it before I slid down onto the floor. I buried my face in my hands and tried to control my breathing.

  After a long moment, I stood, angry with myself and with Brenna. A quick glance in the mirror showed red splotches covering my face, as if I’d been crying. Thankfully, even in my tipsy state, I didn’t go that far. At least not much.

  I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my overheated skin. Black lines of mascara dripped down my cheeks to my chin. Attractive. Another reason not to wear eye makeup. Mascara wands caused the most injuries to the eye each year. I looked up the statistic after Brenna poked herself in the eye back in high school. Put me off the stuff, usually. I dabbed at my cheeks with some folded toilet paper, crumpling it before chucking it in the garbage can.

  I turned toward the door but lost the tiny bits of courage I managed to maintain. My shoulders slumped, and my chest tightened. I wasn’t ready to face Matteo. Not with my face like this. My eyes slid to his shower curtain—a brown paisley, more attractive than I would have anticipated for a single guy. Sure, he made excellent money, thanks to his fat contract here in Seattle, not to mention his sponsorships, but his place appeared minimally furnished—at least the living room and the tidy dining area I’d glimpsed on my way into the bathroom. Perhaps a gift from a previous girlfriend? That might explain the hair spray and other toiletries in the linen closet next to the towel rack.

  I’d made a point of finding out his current relationship status after I saw him with the redhead. They were just friends, Noah had said. The Internet concurred. Teo told multiple news outlets he helped her out while she was in town. He was not seeing Mariana romantically, and had no plans for a long-term relationship, he repeated to a local reporter just yesterday. Which meant he just didn’t want me.

  I leaned my head against the door, ignoring my desire to take a long, hot shower and wash away the last embarrassing hour of my life. But, no, that would have to wait until I got home.

  Pep talk time. After Oren’s attack, I’d needed to give myself reasons to get out of bed. Transferring to Brenna’s university in Oregon and sharing her apartment helped, but I’d needed to remind myself many times each day I was safe. Oren kept his distance as per the restraining order, and I deserved to live my life.

  Squaring my shoulders and ignoring the thrum of blood in my unhappy brain, I started the process: I didn’t want to get involved with any man. A relationship with Teo would be even more dangerous because he was a professional soccer player, a media darling, and I refused to compete for my man’s attention.

  Teo would never be the right person to appreciate the dress or the toned body underneath. Sure, that meant weeks-worth of fantasies down the drain, but I could handle it because I was tougher than Brenna gave me credit for. I’d survived this long, and I would continue to do so.

  Just ge
t through the embarrassing situation out in the living room and never see Teo again. I breathed deep and let the air trickle out slowly. Never again.

  I ran my fingers through my short hair, a nervous habit, as I opened the door. I walked down the hall, my eyes focused on my shoes and trench next to the couch. I sat down and slid my feet into my heels, my Achilles tendons screaming in protest.

  I stood, barely wincing, and slipped my arms into my trench coat. Buckling it, I headed toward the door. Teo met me at the edge of the living room.

  “Thanks for getting me home and the… never mind. I’m just going to grab my purse and go.”

  5

  Teo

  Preslee’s face looked like one of those antique porcelain dolls my grandmother collected: white, smooth skin pulled taut over fragile bones. The freckles dusting her cheeks and nose kept her from looking cold and fake.

  I hesitated. If I touched Preslee, she might break, just as one of those dolls had.

  “Preslee.” She turned fast and slammed her nose into my chest. She made a little sound, like a newborn kitten, before she staggered back. Her eyes darted around and crimson stained her cheeks. I wanted to believe Preslee’s thoughts circled back to how good we’d be together in bed—no doubt we’d be combustible—but her actions showed her embarrassment.

  When she lifted her pretty eyes to mine, hurt welled there, causing my chest to burn. She thought I’d rejected her, not the situation. I never considered how she’d perceive tonight’s events.

  I scrubbed my hands over my head and cursed my parents, Noah’s request, my position in the Timber organization, my history, my desire to play for Milan. All those warring needs meant hurting her, and she seemed unaware of how hard I resisted the need to pull her into my arms this second. Just as I had since I first saw her in the bar tonight.

  “I—I need to go.” She twisted her fingers as her eyes darted around again.

  She wanted to leave and hate me for being an uncaring asshole. God, if she only knew how wrong she was about that. Her brows drew together when I rubbed my fingers through her hair. Soft and glossy. I wondered why she kept it so short, well above her ears, the back even shorter than mine.

  “I don’t have any plans.” I smiled. She glanced away.

  “Well, I do.” Her voice turned rigid, her shoulders back like a soldier’s. Something cold and hard wedged itself in my chest.

  “Are you going back to that bar?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re not going home?”

  She sighed, wilting into herself. “I don’t know. But thanks for thinking you needed to take care of me.”

  I couldn’t help my narrowed eyes as I considered that sexier-than-sin strip of cloth visible between the rough edges of her trench coat. Her entire trim, pale thigh gleamed beneath the red like a petal to be plucked, kissed… wrapped around my waist as I drove into her willing body.

  “You mean you might not go home right away? Like, you plan to go out again in that dress?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her trench gaping enough to give me a view of those luscious breasts. Santa Maria. Nope. No way she was leaving.

  “What I choose to wear isn’t any of your business.”

  “I just made it my concern.”

  “Unmake it,” she snapped.

  “No.”

  She twirled around like she wore four-inch heels all the time—in the bedroom maybe? I groaned. The thought of Preslee in four-inch heels and nothing else kept me a step behind, trying to catch my breath. She stalked toward the door.

  Like that, was it? Oh, the fallout from her night of revelry snaked deeper than she’d yet imagined. People recognized me, even here in Seattle. And I’d caught a glimpse of at least one lens and another cell phone camera while we spoke outside the bar. Those same people—fans—must have snapped pictures of me carrying her over my shoulder. I’m sure at least one of them took pictures of Preslee laughing while she grabbed my ass.

  Those pictures might cost me dearly—her brother would extract his pound of flesh as would my mother—but the pain was worth it because Preslee and I were linked together now.

  Something I could not undo. Nor did I regret my actions, something I was still mulling over.

  “You don’t have your purse.”

  “I know.”

  Desperation set in as she neared the door. She couldn’t leave. How could I fix this current mess?

  “How are you going to get home without your keys?”

  “I’ll just sleep somewhere else.” She shrugged, but her eyes darted away.

  Her hand closed over the doorknob. Before she could pull the door open, my hand, splayed flat above her head, slapped the solid panel of oak.

  She turned and faced me, and her embarrassment morphed into a sizzling anger. “Get out of the way,” she snapped.

  “You’re planning to go out and hook up with some random guy, aren’t you? That was your plan for the night?”

  “No, that wasn’t my plan. I had a very specific plan, and it’s all been shot to hell.” Her eyes were greener now.

  She cleared her throat, the delicate tendons standing out in sharp relief against the elegant curve. “Now I’m onto plan B. Unfortunately, because you’re being difficult, I’m leaving my phone and my keys with you. So, if I get stranded or end up dead, that’ll be on your conscience.”

  She knew how to play dirty. Of course, she did—she grew up with two younger brothers. I would’ve smiled if thoughts of other men seeing her in that band of sin didn’t rip at my guts. I loved the way the dress clung to her, but I didn’t want to share that eyeful of gorgeousness with anyone else.

  “You threw back two drinks in minutes. You aren’t currently fit to make decisions for yourself.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  I leaned in so that my mouth skimmed her lips. “No.”

  She huffed, her eyes dilating as the anger spiraling through her turned to lust. My body answered her unspoken question. Mierda, yeah, I wanted the same. Wanted more than that, which proved a problem. I shouldn’t start a relationship with Preslee Jennings. Not with the mess my family had created, not with my work connection to her brother. Not while I was actively working to be traded to another continent.

  When she stepped back and bowed her head, I relaxed, my hands dropping to my sides in an unaggressive posture. Faster than I blinked, Preslee grabbed my pinkie finger and brought it back. Dios mio. That hurt. She slammed her other fist into my gut. Unprepared for her attack, I slid sideways, shocked and out of breath.

  Preslee opened my front door and bolted down the complex’s hall. I shook my head before I followed her, but I had time: Preslee’s heels were too high to run in and her dress made taking a decent step impossible. She didn’t make it to the stairs before I caught her.

  “That was mean, Preslee. Mean.” I lifted her up by her slim waist so she once again dangled with her feet off the ground. I held her with ease even with those mile-long legs of hers.

  “I wouldn’t resort to such tricks if you’d just let me out.” She shouted as she twisted, pressing her breasts to my chest. I liked the feel of her, and I wasn’t a saint. I tightened my arm around her middle, cutting off her air supply but, more importantly, stilling her delicious rubbing. I needed to think.

  She flailed her head, not willing to make this any easier, as I hauled her back into my condo. I threw the deadbolt in place.

  “I don’t like you at all, Matteo Cruz.”

  I chuckled. “You like me just fine, Preslee Jennings. That’s why you’re angry.”

  “Nope, not anymore. You’ve manhandled me more than I can stand.”

  “You like being manhandled.” My voice dipped deeper, closer to the fragile skin on her ear. I wanted to lick it, nibble the lobe.

  She threw her head away from me and glared, her chest rising and falling at a rapid rate. “No, I don’t. I haven’t liked it since my ex-boyfriend slammed his fist into my face. Puts a damper on the who
le you’re-bigger-than-me thing.”

  What the… fist to her face? I let go so fast she stumbled, her ankle giving out in those ridiculous heels. She slammed against the door, managing to stay upright as she gripped the molding. As the shock morphed into pain, she squealed, bending over to clutch her ankle.

  The view of her back… my eyes climbed the miles of slim, pale calf and thigh. Her coat rode up, exposing the bottom of her dress. Another inch. Please just ride up another inch. Just a mere breadth of cloth raised would show if she wore panties.

  I wanted to see her naked flesh, wanted to feel her heat against my hand.

  “Really?” she cried, standing. I blinked, trying hard to clear the daydream from my mind.

  “Do you need to sit down?” My voice turned raspy and my heart pounded as if I sprinted the length of the pitch and back.

  “Yes, asshole, my ankle hurts.” She turned toward me, tears leaking from the corners of her murderous eyes.

  “Broken?”

  She tested it, wrinkling her nose as she put weight on it. “Not broken,” she decided.

  “I’ll get you some ice,” I stammered.

  “I’d prefer just to go,” she sighed.

  “Ice first. Your ankle’s already swelling.”

  “This day just keeps getting better and better.”

  I took her hand, the small contact more intimate because it wasn’t calculated. I led her into the kitchen and set her at one of the barstools.

  The skin around her mouth turned white and the pulse in her neck dashed faster than a sparrow fighting a windstorm.

  “We’re in The Cosmopolitan, right??”

  “Yes.”

  I put ice in a baggie, wrapped it in a towel and stepped close enough to press the towel to the bruise.

  “What floor?”

  “I’m on the twenty-first.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

  “When did he hit you?”